


When It's Quiet, Lyrium Sings

by Lunavere



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Inspired by Art, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Memories, Sleeping Together, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26711248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunavere/pseuds/Lunavere
Summary: Wrapped up in Fenris and his affection, Hawke considers how their unlikely relationship developed.
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	When It's Quiet, Lyrium Sings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sleepy FenHawke](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/693241) by Nykolai Aleksander. 



Fenris shifted just a touch, tucking his face into Hawke’s neck. Warm breath ghosted over the sensitive flesh there. Smiling to himself, Hawke shifted his head so that Fenris could burrow deeper if he so chose. He did, pressing himself firmly against Hawke’s side in the process. A soft, deep noise vibrated against his side – a sigh, he belatedly realized, of contentment.

Fenris’ scent curled around him, a heady yet light combination of petrichor, sandalwood, and lemongrass with a hint of lyrium. It was a calming smell for Hawke now. One that reminded him that he was safe, protected. Strange to think that it was once foreign to him. Fenris slotted into his life so perfectly, so completely, that he often forgot that he hadn’t been there all along.

Even so, Hawke could still vividly recall when he first recruited the elven warrior. In camp, Fenris set his tent up away from the group, always in a defensive location, and took first watch. He kept one eye on Hawke, even when fighting, as though ready for him to turn at any moment. Against him or into an abomination, Hawke couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Fenris was not at ease with a mage to his back.

“His perspective is too narrow, too shallow, too dictated by _one_ bad experience,” Anders snapped one night as he downed his sixth mead. His eyes glowed a faint blue for but a second. “Yes, his master was a terrible man, but not because he was a mage! I could name at least eleven Templars just as bad off the top of my head!”

“Personal trauma isn’t a competition, Anders,” Hawke said, tone equal parts disapproving and dismissive.

Anders heard the implication and snapped his jaw shut. Glancing between them, Varric gauged the situation for all of two seconds before starting into a new version of Hawke’s escape from Lothering. Hawke had a sack of sweet rolls over his shoulder as he and his family fled into the Wilds this time. The ridiculousness of the imagined situation managed to get a smile from both men.

Since then, though, Hawke ensured that he never took Anders and Fenris on a mission together. Not without good reason, at least.

Building trust took time. Hawke started with trying to ensure Fenris’ comfort around him. He stayed in Fenris’ field of view and spoke of what magic he was about to use before he conjured it whenever possible. Hawke offered Fenris potions, poultices, and injury kits for healing if there was no immediate need for magic. This consideration, however, was misunderstood. After one particularly long battle, Aveline verbally lashed him once he was done treating everyone’s wounds. “I do not care what type of friendship you two have, if any at all. Fenris is one of us. He deserves to be treated the same as any other member.”

Hawke hadn’t realized how it might seem to an outside eye. That night, he sat down across from Fenris – equal parts chastened and ashamed – and explained in a gentle tone, “I apologize if my actions implied that you were unworthy of my time or magic. That cannot be further from the truth. It is just that I know you dislike being subjected to magic, so I thought this would be a suitable alternative. I craft the potions and poultices myself-”

“I understood your intentions,” Fenris said. His eyes averted for a moment, glancing about the camp, as he continued, “It is… thoughtful of you. Perhaps I should have thanked you? I am not used to someone being considerate of me.”

Relaxing, Hawke waved a dismissive hand. “No thanks is necessary. It is the very least I can do in return for you agreeing to assist. Besides, even if we are not friends, we _are_ allies.”

Fenris hummed in response and retreated into his thoughts. That night, his eyes followed Hawke around the camp. For the first time, though, it was not due to wariness or a sense of self-preservation. It was simply… attentiveness, in a way that he had never experienced before.

Fenris slung one arm over. The weight pulled Hawke back into the present and anchored him there in a way only Fenris ever could. Slowly, fingers crept up his neck and laced into his hair. A soothing rub followed, a gentle massaging motion. It was as though Fenris could sense his thoughts and wanted to help ease him into slumber. Instinctively, Hawke pressed into it. Fenris pressed a sleepy ghost of a kiss to Hawke’s shoulder, and his fingers stroked again in the same placating manner.

The first time Fenris initiated contact between them happened a few months after they returned from the Deep Roads. The Hanged Man served as a popular hangout for the hodgepodge collection of companions. Not a single day passed without Varric telling some story or another. Isabela was either instigating a fight or a card game, oftentimes one leading to the other. Thus, there was always a gathering of some type when Hawke arrived, no matter time of day or night.

Wicked Grace was, by far, the most common pastime they engaged in. Though not much of a gambler, Hawke joined in when there was not a pressing quest to handle. He had learned some in Lothering, mostly from travelling merchants on their way to Redcliffe. However, mastering the game proved to be its own struggle. Isabela and Varric were both adept cheaters. Their sleight of hand and misdirection was too quick for Hawke to pick up, though they would call one another out if necessary to win. Despite losing more coin than he won, Hawke remained sporting about it. It was, after all, time he got to spend with Fenris.

He had been on a particularly bad losing streak one night as hand after hand went to one of the other players at the table. They took a small break, mostly to refresh their now empty tankards. Quietly, Fenris changed seats and went from being across from Hawke to sitting directly to his right. He shuffled the cards, the noise camouflaging his whispered words, “If you would like, I can help you win the next game. But you would have to trust me.”

“I already trust you,” Hawke stated. He hadn’t thought it needed to be said, but the expression on Fenris’ face told him otherwise. It was mostly disbelief, as if Fenris thought himself unworthy of such a thing. That bothered Hawke to consider. “Fenris, a hand of cards is nothing when I trust you with my life every single day.”

“You have no choice,” Fenris countered.

Hawke both could and could not believe his ears. “That is simply untrue. I have Aveline, for one. For another, some quests do not require a warrior at all to complete. Yet in either scenario, I always prefer to have you standing between me and our enemies.”

Fenris puzzled over this, and Hawke could see the slight tinge to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Fenris was _flushing_ , he realized after a moment. Shuffling the cards again, he said, “I am… pleased to hear I have earned your trust past what is required for us to work together. Surprisingly so, might I add.”

Oh, if Fenris only knew what Hawke wished to entrust to him the most. But that was a selfish want, borne of his own desire. He would not force his feelings upon Fenris in any form. What their relationship became would be Fenris’ choice, not his. Besides, the elf needed friends more than anything, and Hawke would be contented to remain at his side as such. Well, perhaps not _contented_ , but he would accept that outcome and support Fenris as best he could.

A gentle pressure against the top of his foot pulled Hawke back from his thoughts. He went to move his foot when he felt Fenris’ toes actually curl to keep it there. “If you feel this, it will mean that the person who is playing just cheated.”

“Oh,” Hawke murmured, the word bursting with understanding.

Fenris moved his foot down, until he only pushed down on Hawke’s toes. “This will be the signal for you to pull a card from the discard pile instead of the draw pile.” Then, his foot slipped off and pressed alongside Hawke’s boot. “And this will mean you should drop from the game entirely. Can you remember that?”

“Yes,” Hawke answered.

It took three rounds of practice before Hawke finally won his first game. Isabela and Varric were pleasantly surprised by the outcome. As the night went on and Hawke continued to win, they tried desperately to suss out precisely how he was cheating. Isabela snatched up his hand more than once when he went to draw a card only to find one card there. Varric tried several distraction tactics to hide his own cheating only for Hawke to subsequently call him out. Both muttered to each other at the end of the night, going over their own mental notes and creating more theories to try next time.

Neither of them thought to look at the elf sitting next to him.

The lyrium hummed quietly. Mages learned how to ignore the sound, to press it into the recesses of their minds, until it was no different than the thrum of background chatter. But alone as they were, he could hear its soft notes with increasing clarity. It was a slow song, its tempo paced to Fenris’ deep and even breathing. However, its notes were high and light, almost playful in nature. It was a slightly different song now than it had once been.

The first time Hawke truly heard the song, Fenris had been splayed atop him, his back to Hawke’s chest. He was naked and unashamed, and Hawke soaked up the beauty of his form. The last time they were naked together had also been their first. Both were caught up in a whirlwind of desire, each pushing the other rapidly towards a cataclysm of pleasure. Hawke hadn’t taken his time as he ought to have, drunk on Fenris’ every response. In the end, he lost sleep over what he should have done instead. And after three years apart, he planned on making up for lost time.

Fenris was not so much sensitive as touch-starved, Hawke later realized. Being averse to touch for all of his living memory, the elf had not indulged in the pleasures of flesh. He had his own hand, sure, but that could not compare to the hand of another. Hawke intended to prove as much. He was still dressed in his finery. It was a clear message to Fenris: “This is about your pleasure, not mine.”

The smallest of caresses had been met with an arch into the touch. Fenris’ breathing was already shallow, shuddering. Hawke murmured gentle reassurances in his ear – promises he very much intended to keep about the oncoming pleasure Fenris was due – and it twitched in acknowledgement. Eyes fluttering shut, Fenris eventually calmed and settled back into him.

He placed a firm kiss into Fenris’ shoulder, hoping it would help ground him. Fenris hummed when he felt it. It was a slightly delayed noise, which told Hawke everything he needed to know. Slowly, his fingers skirted around the lyrium tattoos, sensitive as they were, and down Fenris’ chest and stomach. Twice more, he had to stop as Fenris arched and keened. He could feel how Fenris strained against losing himself in the touch, as though almost afraid of what might happen if he did.

“If it’s too much, simply say,” Hawke whispered, his tone warm. This moment was all about Fenris, and he needed his lover to understand that. “Or we can go slower if you need.”

“No,” Fenris croaked out, his eyes snapping open once more. He shook his head a moment later, as though his body was only just catching up to what his mouth said. After a few quick breathes, he said, “I want… I _want_.”

“Then I have got you, Fenris,” Hawke said. He pressed a line of kisses into Fenris’ neck. “There is no need to be frightened of the fall.”

Fenris managed a second nod as he bared his neck to Hawke’s mouth. He indulged in placing a few more kisses there, listening to how Fenris’ breath caught in his throat and how the lyrium sang so sweetly. It was a melody that beckoned him, whispered its desire for more. Hawke heeded its call.

When Hawke’s fingers finally reached his pelvis, Fenris inhaled sharply. His eyes fluttered, not sure if they wanted to remain open or closed. His breathing was still ragged, almost fragmented. Once again, Hawke paused.

For any other lover, it might have been a cruel action. Fenris was already hard, a bead of pre-cum budding from the tip. Most would have begged at that point to be touched if not gotten fed up and touched themselves in need. But he could feel the tension in Fenris’ form, how it coiled until it was about to snap. Halting was the best option, until Fenris could relax once more.

Hawke waited until Fenris had melted back into him. Nipping at Fenris’ ear – which drew a delicious whine from his lover – he reached down and gripped the base of Fenris’ erection. It was hot in his hand, twitching in need. Fenris gasped. His hands scrabbled for a precipice but only found Hawke’s forearms. Hawke didn’t react at all as Fenris dug his nails into his skin. The pinpricks of pain were nothing to be concerned about in this moment. Something he could tend to with magic later.

His strokes started off languid, his grip firm enough to be present yet not enough to drive Fenris right over the edge. With every stroke, Fenris lost himself further. He tossed his head back, over Hawke’s shoulder, his eyes closed and his jaw dropped. Gradually, his moans became louder, less controlled. His hips started to undulate, meeting Hawke’s downstroke with a sharp movement up. Yet the movements weren’t frantic. He was not searching for climax but instead finally heeding Hawke’s request: indulge in the pleasure.

The lyrium sang louder than before. Its melody had shifted into something faster yet no less tender. Hawke matched its rhythm in his strokes. Keening, Fenris panted and clawed at Hawke’s arms. He arched, his hips snapping a few times. Hawke wrapped an arm across Fenris’ torso. Holding him against himself, Hawke squeezed at the tip and gave rougher tugs. Fenris didn’t struggle as he thought he might. Instead, the elf turned his head enough to capture Hawke’s mouth.

He came as they kissed, hot cum pulsing over Hawke’s fist. Hawke stroked him through it, feeling each quake of pleasure echo throughout Fenris’ body. When he finally whined, too sensitive, he withdrew his hand. They exchanged a few more lazy kisses, Fenris basking in the pleasure and Hawke enjoying how the lyrium continued to sing.

Hawke reached a hand up, touching Fenris’ arm. A smile drifted across his face as his heart swelled.


End file.
